Spier Marl

Upon the pallid gales of twilight.

On his deathbed, The Appraiser left four golden coins. Each coin shares the relief of a city impaled by a grand, central spire. Strongly backed by a mountain range, the city seems to radiate from an enormous cliff. Between the spire and cliff lies a blanket of shadow, an entire city ward deprived of sunlight. Three bands arc away from the spire, like ripples from a drop of water.

The Deva said it was home. That’s where he always traveled. But no more. Now he’s dead, and you don’t know where to start. Was he serious? How did he know there was a conspiracy for his death. Maybe death was clouding his mind. Maybe there was no conspiracy. You were there. You saw the halfling do it. But she’s gone too.

Why did Turnegal choose you to unravel his murder? You merely purchased goods from the deva in Spellgard. Neither of you had met before. You weren’t even close. And yet, you can’t let it go. The deva’s final words were the only clue. His final words were: